I’ve taken it upon myself to shoot some video of me examining different killer lipsticks. You can pepper my appearances throughout the script. Just stay away from the first few shots—the photographer completely messed up my lighting and you know how I abhor improper lighting!
Thank you for your efforts and please keep the above in mind for future stories. I know you do not want to disappoint my public.
Terrance
P.S. As a friend, I want to mention that you might seriously reconsider that Old Navy outfit you had on yesterday. If you’re going to be interviewing people in the name of Terrance Toller, you must look the part. Acceptable designers would include Armani, Dolce and Gabbana, Donna Karan (which does not include that off-the-rack DKNY!) and Chanel. (And no, knockoffs are not acceptable.)
I closed my e-mail with a groan. Terrance was seriously out of control. Did he really, honestly think viewers cared if he was physically in the segment? Was he that genuinely narcissistic? I mean, hello!? He was a reporter, not Brad Pitt! Did he not get that?
But the question was, how did I explain that without having him rip me a new one? He’d already completely rewritten my “Cosmetics That Kill” script and it now barely resembled my thought-provoking, factual original. Producer-driven segment, my ass! What a laugh. Why did I even bother showing up to work if he was going to redo everything?
I could have gone to Richard and complained, but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. After all, Terrance had been their number one anchor for years and held way more clout than some twenty-something, utterly replaceable producer like myself.
No, I had to pick my battles and “Cosmetics That Kill” was not worth fighting for. So I brought the mutilated script and tapes to Mike, the editor, and put the segment out of my mind.
Anyway, I was already on to bigger and better things—a story so good I could almost smell the Emmy.
The Mexico/San Diego drug cartel.
This was no everyday drug-smuggling cartel, either. Deep in the desert, the bad guys had built an underground tunnel that allowed importers to skip the high security of the Mexican/US border and instead waltz right into America with their illegal wares unchecked. Miguel had provided still photos his brother had taken of the Mexican side of the tunnel. He’d also mapped out the location of the States-side exit and promised that if we came to Mexico, he would arrange an off-hours secret tour of the Mexican entrance.
I hadn’t yet pitched the idea to Richard or my executive producer Laura. I knew that they’d get way too excited and pin all sorts of hopes on it. Then, if things didn’t pan out, I’d look like a bad producer and no way was I willing to take that risk. So I decided instead to work on it on the side, shoot it, and write it. Maybe even edit it in secret, while working on my other more mundane projects, then present it to them as a major sweeps story bonus. Once they saw it, they’d love it, I was sure. And if it didn’t pan out, no one would be the wiser.
“So, what do you think?” I asked Jamie after he paged through Miguel’s documentation and photos.
“I can’t believe he sent this all to you,” Jamie said, handing the papers back to me. “What a scoop.”
“Yup. An exclusive investigation. All ours.”
“So what do you propose we do?”
I grinned. “Head out to the desert undercover, of course.”
“That could be dangerous,” Jamie pointed out. “The desert is wide open. You and I would be sitting ducks with a news camera. They’d see us a mile off. If they’re importing what this guy says they’re importing, they probably have armed guards and everything.”
“We won’t bring the big news camera. We have a lipstick cam here.”
“Lipstick cam?”
“Yeah. We call it that ‘cause it’s so tiny. Like a tube of lipstick. The whole camera fits into a purse or bag and the lens peeks out of a small opening. It’s very ‘stealth.’” I pulled out the contraption from under my desk. It really was cool. And so useful for getting all the important undercover video investigative stories needed.
Jamie examined the camera. “Nice,” he announced. “I suppose we shouldn’t take a news truck, either. Too obvious with all the antennas and stuff sticking out the top.”
“Good point. We can take my car.”
“If you want to be even more stealthy, we could take my motorcycle,” Jamie suggested. “A car stopped on the side of the road might seem a bit obvious. Like, why are they stopped? Are they broken down? But motorcyclists stop and hang out all the time.”
“You’ve got a point.” I felt a small thrill tickle the pit of my stomach. I was going to get to ride on Jamie’s motorcycle! That meant wrapping my arms around him and feeling the contours of his strong chest. Laying my head against his back and letting the desert wind whip through my hair.
Whoa, girl. You’re just friends, remember. Friends don’t care about that sort of thing.
Still, that motorcycle idea did make the most sense. I’d just have to control my hormones and we’d be all set.
Jamie looked at his watch. “When do you want to go?”
“Now’s as good a time as any, don’t you think?”
We walked down to the Newsplex and informed the girl on the assignment desk that we’d be gone for the remainder of the day “on assignment.” (That was one of the pluses of TV news—no one batted an eyelash if you disappeared for the day.) Then we headed out the side door to the News 9 parking lot. Jamie’s motorcycle was parked nearby: a sleek black and silver bike with the brand name “Triumph” molded onto its side.
“Nice ride,” I remarked, running my hand along the body. I actually knew next to nothing about bikes—it could be a total piece of junk—but it had a cool paint job….
“Thanks. It’s a British bike,” Jamie said, grabbing two helmets from a back compartment. “And thus, highly superior to garish, overpriced American Harleys.”
“Oh, please. You’re a total Anglophile, Jamie,” I teased. “Between bikes and Brit Pop. You know, there’s nothing wrong with buying American once in a while.”
He laughed. “Nothing except we Yanks could never make such a lean, mean, biking machine as my baby here.” He stroked the handles almost lovingly, prompting me to erupt in giggles.
He handed me a black helmet and I pulled it over my head, feeling a little like Darth Vader. Jamie reached over and flipped up the visor.
“Ever been on a motorcycle before?” he asked.
I shook my head and held my hands in front of me, palms up. “Motorcycle virgin here.”
“Are you nervous?”
Nervous? Me? Okay, so I had butterflies racing through my stomach like they were qualifying for the Indy 500, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
“Nah,” I said with a shrug.
“Good. It’s simple anyway. Just wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.”
“Roger that.” Oh yeah, that was a definite ten-four.
Jamie flipped his visor down and straddled the bike. I climbed on behind him, annoyed at the way my body instantly tightened as it came into contact with his. It was so embarrassing the way he could turn me on without even trying. Attempting to think of unpleasant things to calm my senses, I wrapped my arms around his chest. My breasts pressed against his back and I wondered if the proximity was doing anything remotely similar to him as it was doing to me.
He looked so sexy in his black leather jacket and helmet. I never realized I had a thing for bikers before. He turned his head back to look at me.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
And we were off.
The wind whipped through my thin clothing as we flew down the street. I had no idea how fast we were actually going, but it felt like a million miles an hour. For a brief moment I pondered the fact that should the bike tip over, I certainly would be dead, but then put it out of my mind and simply enjoyed the ride.
As he slowed down and stopped at a traffic light, Jamie turned his head toward me and flipped up his vi
sor. “How do you like it so far?” he asked.
I grinned. “Dreamy.”
He turned back to the road and revved the engine. The light went green and we took off again. I hugged him tighter as our speed increased, enjoying being this close to him. Even through my helmet I could smell the sexy scent of leather from his jacket. This was heaven. The world could fly by us at top speed, but when all was said and done, we were completely alone together.
I definitely needed a biker boyfriend. But a cool one, obviously, not a fat, tobacco-chewing Hell’s Angels type. Someone handsome, nice, and cool. Someone exactly like Jamie. I wondered if he had a twin….
Stop it, I berated myself. You can’t have Jamie. He’s taken. He’ll be married soon. You need to stop thinking about it.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I realized. And I’d been trying for days with no luck. I still wanted him so badly it hurt. And being put in this kind of position, where I was forced to physically touch him for hours on end was driving me absolutely nuts.
To distract myself, I turned my thoughts to our mission. Truth be told, I was a bit scared going out into the desert by ourselves to find the tunnel site. What if there were guys with guns? What if they killed us and buried our bones? Would we be dug up by coyotes and eaten?
Okay, maybe I’d go back to thinking about Jamie. Hmm. Was it too late to stop the wedding?
After swinging by my house so I could grab more-appropriate desert hiking attire, we headed out to the desert. After about an hour, we exited the well-paved freeway and turned down a winding, bumpy back road—much to my butt’s dismay.
Even though I was a born-and-bred San Diego chick, I hadn’t spent much time out in the desert. Once in high school I dated this loser motocross fanatic. He’d been convinced that if he dragged me out to the middle of desert nowhere and sat me in his pickup truck while he and his buddies rode their bikes around the dunes, I’d grow to love the barren wasteland. After three torturous outings, I decided dust was a bad look for me and ended it.
We passed dilapidated trailers, sun-bleached shacks, gas stations with one rusty pump, and wooden roadside stands where desert entrepreneurs displayed Native American knickknacks, hoping for some lost tourist to take pity and whip out their wallet.
But as we got deeper into the desert, the signs of humanity slipped away and were replaced by an almost creepy barrenness. A vast landscape of scrubby trees, wilted grasses, and rocky hillsides. The road’s pavement began to disappear and soon we were riding on a completely dirt road. The bike’s tires kicked up dust and sand, generously coating me in grime. The things I did for this job!
After an hour of this, Jamie thankfully pulled over to the side of the road and killed his bike engine.
“Can you grab the map out of my saddlebags?”
I reached back and grabbed it, handing it to him. He studied it for a moment. “According to this, the dig site is down this trail,” he said, pointing to a dirt footpath off the side of the road. “I can’t get my bike down there. We’re going to have to walk.”
I stared down the trail and gulped. I hadn’t realized we’d be doing part of the journey by foot, away from the safety of our getaway bike. I looked down at my feet. Good thing I’d decided to wear sensible hiking boots. Still, I wasn’t going to be able to outrun a drug dealer’s bullet, should one come whizzing at me at some point.
“Okay.” I agreed hesitantly as I slid off the bike, careful not to burn myself on the hot metal sides. Didn’t want Jamie to think I was some wimpy girlie-girl. I could do this.
He grabbed the hidden camera from the saddlebags. We’d set it in a backpack, creating a hole in the front pocket for the lens to peek through. You’d never be able to tell there was a camera inside.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” I answered, though suddenly I realized my hands were shaking and my heart beating wildly. The trip was about to get a lot more adventurous. Was I ready? Could I do this?
I took a deep breath and willed my hands to stop shaking.
Jamie studied me. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
I masked my concern with a smile. No need for him to know what a wimp I was. After all, Diane Dickson reported live from Iraq, didn’t she? I could surely brave the San Diego county desert. If anyone approached us, we’d simply tell them we were hikers, out enjoying a beautiful desert day. No one would ever guess our true mission.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
We started down the trail and into the desert. According to Jamie’s map, we had about a forty-minute hike to the dig site. Luckily he’d brought a bunch of water bottles. That and a fancy high-tech GPS mapping device so we wouldn’t get lost. The man was a Boy Scout with his preparedness.
The sun beat down on the dusty landscape as we followed the rocky trail. Unlike the stereotypical sand deserts such as the Sahara, San Diego deserts featured rocky cliffs and scrubby trees. A harsh landscape where only the strong survived. It was beautiful, in its own savage way. Peaceful. No modern technology to spoil it.
Jamie’s cell phone rang. Of course.
“Hello?” he said, after flipping open the receiver. “Hello?” He glanced at the phone’s screen and then put it back to his ear. “Can you hear me now?” he asked the person on the other end of the line, mimicking the Verizon commercial.
After a few more “hellos,” he gave up and flipped the phone closed. “Jennifer,” he informed me. “But I could barely hear her. No cell towers in the desert, I guess.” He shoved the phone into his back pocket.
“Do you think it was important?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. Probably some kind of catering crisis. There’ve been a lot of those lately.”
I laughed, though inside I felt a bit like dying. It was so hard to be reminded of his upcoming nuptials. Very soon, this wonderful man would be officially and legally off the market. I had to quash this ridiculous crush I had as soon as possible.
“So, how’d you meet Jennifer?” I asked, to make conversation and satisfy my masochistic curiosity.
“She auditioned for a movie I was working on,” he said. “Didn’t get the part, but did get me.”
“Ah, the booby prize,” I teased.
“Yeah, she’d probably tell you that,” he said with a laugh. “Though she was a lot different back then. She’d only recently arrived in Hollywood. Small-town girl from Missouri, desperate to become a movie star. Buck-toothed and brown-haired.”
“Are we talking about the same Jennifer? Your fiancée Jennifer?”
Jamie grinned ruefully. “One and the same. Pre Hollywood extreme makeover, of course.”
“Well she’s beautiful now. Stunning. I mean, she looks like Paris Hilton.”
“I guess.” Jamie pulled a twig from a bush as he walked past and snapped it in his hand. “Though to tell you the truth, I prefer a more natural look.”
I groaned. “Oh puh-leeze. Men always say that! And then they go off and ogle all the supermodels and porn stars.”
“You think I ogle porn stars?”
“All men do,” I insisted stubbornly. “Whether they admit it or not.”
“Fair enough. I may ogle, as you call it, but I’m not going to marry one.”
“Ah, here’s the Madonna and whore complex!” I said triumphantly. “You want to marry someone pure—like Mom, right?”
He shuddered. “Please. You haven’t met my mother.”
“You know what I mean, though. You men are all the same. Sow your wild oats while young, then marry the one girl who didn’t give it up.”
He laughed. “Maddy, your peek into the male psyche is astounding. Did you learn all that in Psychology one-oh-one, or did you take advanced courses?”
I playfully shoved him. “Whatever, dude. Face it. You know I’m right.”
“I don’t,” he insisted innocently. “If you were, then I wouldn’t be marrying a Hollywood starlet in a few months. Jen is the anti-mom. And she’d rather commit hara-kir
i than set foot in a kitchen.”
“Okay, okay. I stand corrected.” I giggled. “You managed to buck the trend. Marry the whore instead of the Madon—” I stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Er, not that Jen’s a whore. Sorry, that came out wrong.”
He chuckled. “I knew what you meant.”
We fell silent after that. I felt kind of bad, teasing him about his fiancée. I didn’t want him to think that I was doing it as a desperate attempt to get him to break up with Jennifer and go out with me. That was so not my intention. Had I taken banter a step too far?
“What about you?” Jamie asked suddenly, breaking into my thoughts.
“Me?” I cocked my head in question.
“Yeah, you. Are you the Madonna or the whore?” My face flamed. “Uh … I’m … well …” How did one answer that question? If I said Madonna, I’d be the boring, cookie-baking mom type. Which I wasn’t. But I wasn’t some whore, either.
“Not as easy to categorize when it’s about yourself, huh?” Jamie asked. I looked up at him and could see the teasing light in his eyes.
Fine. He got me there.
“Yeah, yeah,” I acquiesced. “You’ve proven your point.”
“But you haven’t answered my question.” Jamie stopped and faced me. His eyes darkened and the teasing glimmer retreated from his face. “Which are you?” I suddenly felt hot in a way that had nothing to do with the desert sun beating down on us. I wanted to squirm away from his intense gaze. What was it about this guy that made me so crazy and weak in the knees? Did he have some kind of Maddy kryptonite in his pocket or something?
The phone rang again.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Jamie cried, dropping eye contact to grab the receiver. “Hello? Hello?” He banged on it with his hand and put the phone back to his ear. “Jen? Can you hear me?”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the “off “ button. The cell tinkled its good-bye music and shut down. He stuffed it back into his pocket.